


The Plan

by Harven



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Drama, Love, M/M, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harven/pseuds/Harven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's scheming again...but this time, all of his chips are down.  He wants one thing only, and Sherlock needs to give it to him.  Johnlock.  Drama/Love/Angst.  Takes place after the Christmas Eve party in "Scandal in Belgravia".  Published 8/19.  Complete. (or is it?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Late Night Encounter

> > > > > It was ten past midnight, and I was waiting for my friend to return home.
>>>>> 
>>>>> The steaming mug of cocoa warmed my hands whilst I sat patiently in Sherlock's armchair. The cool black leather reminded me of the detective in many ways: it smelled of him, it was the same color as Sherlock's jackets and shoes and coat and hair, even--and often, after Sherlock went out, it retained the imprint of him. His thin, straight shoulders, his lean arms, or the marks where his leather shoes dug into the seat when he sat perched, like a rare bird of prey, stalking his cases, stalking his enemies through the maze of his mind.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I never had the privilege of knowing what truly went on inside the battle zone of Sherlock's brain. I only knew that on the chance occasions when he stopped to think, just for a minute, and I had drawn the lot of my own comfortable burgundy armchair across from him, I could at least sit perfectly still and see the blue storms in his eyes. On these rare occasions, with him in his suitcoat, and me in my jacket, we stared into each other's souls.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Well, I rather felt like a spectator, to be truly honest. Here I would sit, quietly bearing witness to always one of the greatest battles in all of human history, and yet all of the brutality and the darkness was contained inside one man's mind. I would be afraid to move, fearing I may disturb whatever calm wall he had built up that left him impervious to my deeply penetrating gaze for so long.
>>>>> 
>>>>> And he would continue to stare blankly out into the room, though his eyes most often would chance happen upon mine because of where I sat. And then I would remember. And wonder.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Remember that some days I would go out for work, or take a day off and head to the shops, and it was like he would forget I had gone out at all. He would simply forget I had moved, or left, and I would begin to wonder how much I mattered to him.
>>>>> 
>>>>> How much did the good Doctor really matter to the nefariously clever and indomitably crude Sherlock Holmes?
>>>>> 
>>>>> I was about to find out.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I had been playing a little game with Sherlock's nerves of late; it was a tactic I had devised all on my own and it had taken the better part of the last two weeks to perfect, to shape, something like a fine glass prism blown slowly into a beautiful work of art. But I was dedicated to making it work.
>>>>> 
>>>>> And now my own wicked plans were in place, and I could hear the swift click of the lock coming undone on the first floor.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Sherlock bounded up the steps two at a time--a thumping tornado of chaos and crazy. He peeked his head into the flat and saw me sitting where I had been all along. I was reading. I had set my mug aside, leaving it to steam on the coffee table next to where I had just placed my phone.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I greeted him in the calmest voice I could muster.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Hello, Sherlock."


	2. A Cuppa or Two

> > > > > "Hello, Sherlock."
>>>>> 
>>>>> Sherlock narrowed his eyes, squinting as if to read me, or possibly the cover of the book I was, quite figuratively, buried in.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I took this time to meet his eyes, and upon seeing them shake, I knew we were on. The pupils, both a deep and lustrous black, shone wetly and appeared hazy and slightly dilated. I could see that, even from a few feet away, as with the very apparent shakiness of his straining eyes.
>>>>> 
>>>>> He turned away from my stare long enough to close the door and linger there momentarily.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I also took these seconds to notice he had not left his coat at the door downstairs, when he locked it and came inside. Or had he locked it at all? It was quite clear that in his current state -unusual signs of rushing about for no reason that was apparent, forgetfulness, the shakiness- something had him off tilt.
>>>>> 
>>>>> In fact, he appeared quite anxious, as I gathered from his reluctance to sit down, for he just turned around and stood there, by the door, mechanically peeling off his gloves. It was only with a sudden start, then, that he did realize he was still wearing his cumbersome coat, and proceeded to take it off and throw it over the back of his desk chair. He stole a glance at me, huffed under his breath, and let himself sink into the coach.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Uneasy, I would say. Judging from the slow realization to apparent details around him, and his inability to hold eye contact with me earlier, which was borne out by his sudden and unbroken interest in his shoes just afterwards.
>>>>> 
>>>>> There. Shakiness, anxiety, and uneasiness.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I calmly set my book aside and leaned forward over my knees, clasping my hands in mock prayer as I had watched him do so often.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Sherlock," I said.
>>>>> 
>>>>> He 'mmmrph'ed at me from the couch, lying flat forward with his face smashed under his mess of locks. His arm dangled over the edge; his alabaster index finger brushed the floor.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Sherlock," I persisted.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "John," he growled lowly, gutturally.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "How do you feel?" I asked him. To my question, he flopped over onto his back rather lethargically, like a sick animal or a large puppy. He breathed in, and them sighed out again, and did not answer.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I had come to accept this sort of answer as a charmingly eloquent sign that he wanted me to 'Piss off'. Well, I wouldn't be having that tonight.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I got up and dropped my book on the table. The second I stood I noticed that he jerked awake and snuck a quick glance at the little leather chair of his. Oh, he didn't like me sitting on his seat, did he? Well, I knew that from the start, and I had every intent of provoking that little emotional gem.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I stood over the prone Sherlock who had shut his eyes again, and I gently prodded him, imploring him to get up. I was a doctor, and I wanted to know what was troubling him. When I shook his shoulder gently, I noticed the muscle spasmed under the skin at my brief touch.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Come on Sherlock, get up now," I urged him, but he only folded his arms and patiently declared, "Why?"
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Because I asked you to, that's exactly why."
>>>>> 
>>>>> "That is...not an answer, John." His words were punctuated just slightly by little quick breaths in through the nose.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I shrugged off his braised words and proceeded to try to pull him up off the couch. "Come on," I insisted, "Sherlock, there's nothing to be had in lying around. You need to sit up. Say something to me, Sherlock," I implored him, "Tell me what you've been doing out all night for five hours...at the very least, let me boil one for the both of us."
>>>>> 
>>>>> I managed to coax his big head off the sofa pillows. He sat upright and stared at my cocoa and asked, "What's that, dear John? Why would you be boiling us both a kettle when you've already had tea?" He nearly growled the words again. I tried not to notice. I was too deeply infatuated with the rumble of his words; so deep and torrential, they flowed from his lips.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I followed the stiff point of his finger and exclaimed, "Oh! That's hot cocoa, Sherlock. All the better, really. There's nothing like a cup of hot chocolate on a Christmas Eve. Drink some of mine, then," I suggested, handing him my still-steamy mug.
>>>>> 
>>>>> He furrowed his eyebrows deeply at my request. The contours of his face were a fascinating late-night puzzle, one that would take any extraordinary man several nights to solve.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "But...it's your cup, John. Just go boil me a new one," he said rather testily and I could tell that my gesture had gotten him somewhat lost.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Then again, his mind had come into this discussion already lost in the fog.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I snorted at his defiance. "I will not get out of my warm seat, just to boil you a cuppa. And you aren't getting up, either," I caught him as he started to stand, no doubt to storm off into into the kitchen and fester. "You don't need tea, now, just some of my special chocolate."
>>>>> 
>>>>> His frown was palpable. He sat there, hanging on the edge of the little worn sofa, deciding whether to drink, or not to drink. I felt almost pity for the predicament I'd situated him in. Honestly, did no one ever try and feed him a simple cup of cocoa when he was a kid?
>>>>> 
>>>>> Sherlock took a sip. Apparently he decided he liked my drink, or at least enough to throw away the notion that I was poisoning him with anything.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I watched him stare at the normal sized mug, which his hands absolutely swallowed when they clasped around it. "Right," I said. "Where in the bloody hell were you?"
>>>>> 
>>>>> Sherlock flashed daggers at me. "I was investigating, John."
>>>>> 
>>>>> I made a show of rolling my eyes. "Every time you say that, all I hear is a little kid saying, 'Nothing, Daddy.' What does investigating even mean anymore, Sherlock? You've been out for hours, in the cold, in the rain!"
>>>>> 
>>>>> I saw his two black eyes flash and start to shake, wet again, and they bore into me harsher than before.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I stuck out a finger. "You didn't tell me you were going out. I had to say your goodbyes for you when Molly left, my girlfriend walked out on me, and Mrs. Hudson went to bed worried about you...and for all that, I need an explanation." Crossly, I sat back in my seat -his chair- and folded my arms.
>>>>> 
>>>>> His eyes followed my every move too raptly and very pointedly. "It doesn't matter where I went. You wouldn't know, you wouldn't want to know." Sherlock hung over the mug clutched in his hands like some huge vulture.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Okay, why? Why did you walk out? You slammed the door in my face, Sherlock, and you left me standing there without a word, Sherlock. And, Sherlock, you didn't answer the one text I sent you, asking where you went off to," I snapped at him. I intended to savor this situation to question him thoroughly, to spill out all of my pent up anger.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "I--" he began, the uncertainty suddenly very present in his speech. "I needed something, John. Something very...not good."


	3. Touch

> > > > > I stared at him, stared into his shocked blue eyes. He looked a startled creature, suddenly so vulnerable and thin, and less--less than he had ever appeared before.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I had wanted this, I reminded myself. Steady, now. I wanted this truth out of him. For me.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "What did you need--"
>>>>> 
>>>>> Sherlock slammed the mug on the table in front of the sofa, shouting with the effort, "IT DOESN'T MATTER!" he roared, so loudly that I was very afraid the landlady may have heard from downstairs.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Sherlock! What has gotten into you?" I tried, in a scalding tone. He was seething visibly, as I could see, and when he looked up to glare at me his pupils dilated again and I was staring into the eyes of a possessed man who was not only trying to hide something, but run away from it.
>>>>> 
>>>>> So I tried a softer approach.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "You're never like this. What happened, tonight? What do you need, Sherlock?"
>>>>> 
>>>>> He flinched visibly at the last question and broke our intense shared stare by dropping his head weakly into his sweaty looking palms. He tried to massage his temple and say something at once, but the words came out an indistinguishable blurb.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "What was that?" I asked.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "I said, I took some pills."
>>>>> 
>>>>> I grimaced. "Not deadly ones, I hope?" I asked, trying to appear less perturbed and incredulous than I was feeling.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Of course not." I already knew that answer. "Apart from what you may think, I do not wish to die at the peak of my brash youth," he remarked, reviling my curiosity with his insidious sarcasm.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Something was trying to click in place in my mind, but it was spinning just put of reach and I dare not try to snag it yet, not until I was sure.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Can I ask where you went out to?" I softly started to probe him. Depending on what he said, I might know how to proceed onwards.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "With Mycroft," he replied.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Don't care. I want to know where you two smuggled off to."
>>>>> 
>>>>> "The hospital. Why?" He looked up from his pasty red-smeared-on-white hands.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Careful, I thought. I didn't want him to catch onto my game; no, not at any cost.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "I have a right to know," I fought back. "Why were you there?"
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Looking at a woman's body, John."
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Spare me the gruesome details," I japed, and asked him, "Whose, exactly, was it?"
>>>>> 
>>>>> "THE Woman, John, 'The Woman' woman...she's dead, John. We had a so-to-speak bet, and Mycroft was showing me right."
>>>>> 
>>>>> "You're telling me that Irene Adler is dead?"
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Yes, John, must I say it thrice?" The words seethed out of his cold, hard lips and crystallized in the frosty air between us.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "And, how does that make you...feel?" I carefully pushed the question between us, knowing fully well the volatility of those words, if taken the wrong way by my friend.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Sherlock didn't answer me, though, and I almost laughed with relief. When instead he ducked his head down into his folded arms, I took this fragile, so fragile, opportunity to hold him. I sat down next to him, knowing he would flinch at my touch even before I laid my hands over his shoulders and pulled him into my chest.
>>>>> 
>>>>> It was only a little gesture, as our two bodies were separated by just millimeters of air. But at the same time, it was an enormous little leap in our relationship, and I could feel it sitting heavily on my lap...that burdensome truth.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I would have given the world to be able to carry it for nights longer and previous to this one, but damn the bloody bastard's unwillingness to cooperate with my schemes! I wished he had succumbed to me sooner--it had taken me countless nights of work to plan for this one alone.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Yes, it is true.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I wanted Sherlock to fall in love with me, tonight.


	4. Our Fall Together

> > > > > He didn't start to cry, he didn't wail or sob--he only leaned into me as if I was his last and only friend, and if he didn't touch me and need me as desperately as he knew he really did, then I would vanish.
>>>>> 
>>>>> We were lost on the sea together, on a forlorn ocean of great rolling hills of water and beautifully deep mysteries; as deep as the water could go, we could go, and no one could follow us down there.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I roused him with a little nudge. Hatefully. I had to disturb him, even though I didn't want to have to, because I didn't want him to fall asleep in my arms here. Not on this couch. Not in the parlor.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Sherlock?" I asked. "Why did you take those pills?"
>>>>> 
>>>>> He inhaled a deep, shaky draw of breath, but I had to wait a whole minute for his answer.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "I needed something. Something to...to ease the pain," he admitted, though I was struck by the sadness in his words.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Pain?" I asked. "What pain?"
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Someone died, John..."
>>>>> 
>>>>> "But people die all the time, Sherlock. They all do. So, why? Why the pain, why this time?" I knew I was poking an enormously large black bear with a big stick on this one, but I simply couldn't help myself. My satisfaction was his words; they kept me coming back with more and more questions I wanted answers to. And my motivation was his tight, knotted back and the lines of his shoulders that stuck out, looking so sad and exhausted.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Sherlock heaved a long sigh, but it was such a pained sound that I thought he might collapse in my arms, or start to cry, or both.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Words started as mumbles, and then became words slowly trickling out of his lips, but on and on they came forth, an outpouring of a flood of feelings only a man as deep as Sherlock could possibly know. "Some...words...Mycroft said...I didn't care, and I knew...it was wrong, John. He was wrong, I was hiding something. I felt a feeling, John. And she couldn't be dead...absolutely could not have been...and yet, her body...I'll find her, but not soon enough, John...I must know...if she is alive...because I do care, John, I care about somebody...and Mycroft, he doesn't know...should never know--"
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Oh, hush," I quieted him, pulling his stiff body closer to me. I could wrap my arms around him and touch my fingertips together, just to show how tiny and vulnerable he felt. He started to come apart in my hands, and I could almost have absorbed the palpable grief out of the thick, quiet air in the room.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "That's why you needed to take those pills? To stop this?" I asked. But nagging at me was the same doubt in the continuity of his answers as before. Something didn't fully add up, not even now. And I had pinpointed it exactly.
>>>>> 
>>>>> The Sherlock that I knew wouldn't take pills, if he was grieving a death. He didn't act that way because he wanted to suppress some feelings for a dead woman on a cold slab back in the mortuary. He wasn't thinking logically. He was feeling something strong, something strong enough that made him search out drugs to alter his state of mind, because Sherlock knows that there is probably a greater than ten-to-one chance that any given drug will have a duplicative effect on the body's senses, to say nothing of just dulling the pain he was feeling. There is always some side effect...always some collateral. Taking those pills was the same as taking a big risk. And what could have stirred him up enough to want to do that?
>>>>> 
>>>>> I didn't believe that this as Irene Adler's fault. She was dead, i.e., not a problem anymore. I had suspected Sherlock might harbor some feelings for her, yes. She seemed to intrigue him, anger him if not, and he usually hated his emotions being played with so. But death was cold, hard, final. Even I knew that. If Sherlock was taking pills because of her, then he was taking them too late in the game, and he would have known it.
>>>>> 
>>>>> Irene Adler was out of the lists; he was suffering something else.
>>>>> 
>>>>> He shuddered another husky breath, "I needed the pills...to stop feeling. To stop thinking. About what Mycroft said."
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Tell me," I nearly begged him.
>>>>> 
>>>>> It was another full minute before Sherlock spoke some more. "Mycroft was watching me. And we were watching a family, a woman, a daughter...they were weeping, John, weeping...and I... I couldn't think of anything else to say. He had handed me a cigarette, and I smoked to his words, that caring is not an advantage. Because people die, they all do, and deaths are no different from one another. They are, all of them, final." He spoke so that I had to stop breathing and crane my neck to hear his whispered words.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "And I smoked. And afterwards, I needed something else. But I knew you would have hidden my things, so I went elsewhere. I couldn't come back, John, not yet, but I did need it...and I hope you are not angry with me for wanting it."
>>>>> 
>>>>> And with that last push, my eyes had suddenly started to bristle, and the water that gathered in them threatened to waterfall down my face, and my cheeks flushed, and my eyes grew red and I started to blink rapidly, and I knew--oh! I knew! If he even so much as looked up at me in the next minute, I would fall. Hard. And apart. I would fall into pieces for him on that couch.
>>>>> 
>>>>> But I didn't want to fall alone, so I willed the water in my eyes to stop wibbling there, and I focused on quietly clearing my throat, so that I would know that he heard me--that he would know I had taken his words to heart, and listened, at the dear and precious cost of my own strength. I feared I wouldn't be able to hold it together for much longer.
>>>>> 
>>>>> So I slowly, absently, in a gesture of my own need, began to rub his shoulder, and as I circled my thumb around the soft, smooth, flattering fabric there, I could feel his bones again underneath my touch. He was tense, so very tense...
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Sherlock," I said in my softest voice close to choking up, "I would never be that angry at you. I'm your friend, and I would never hate you, or dislike you, and all that matters is you, and I, and I need something too--I need you to know that. And to go on knowing that. Please, Sherlock, tell me anything, tell me everything: because...it...matters."
>>>>> 
>>>>> He shifted under me. He spoke. I listened with rapt attention. We were close, but how close were we?
>>>>> 
>>>>> "I..." He mustered, but his voice sounded like it broke and the deep fibers that played every time he sang his words out had withered, so that he could only whisper in a cracked tone, and yet still, with every breath and that one syllable, his voice was more meaningful and beautiful than anything else in this world right now. 
>>>>> 
>>>>> "John, I..." He began again, "I needed something, need something..."
>>>>> 
>>>>> I stopped softly circling his shoulderbone with my thumb when I heard him speak, because he pulled away slightly, and looked up at me.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "Sherlock," I was silently gasping for breath with the way he gazed pleadingly at me. But it was not a battle that fought for truth in his raging blue eyes...it was a word, a serene word that forced itself out into the blue and lingered on his lips, as he teetered over the edge and I could see it, see him, about to fall if I didn't say something next.
>>>>> 
>>>>> "What...do you need..." I managed, but my words were just hot breath. They formed, they whispered, but their whispers felt as loud as shouts in that room, with our closeness so pregnant, so touchable, so emotional and beautiful.
>>>>> 
>>>>> And then the one word formed itself on Sherlock's lips, a beautiful, round arch in the curve of his mouth.
>>>>> 
>>>>> And he was on top of me.
>>>>> 
>>>>> He thrust that word and all of its longing into the mesmerizing contact between our lips. We came crashing together in that quiet split second and the feral storm raged between our bodies. He overpowered me in an instant, or I let him, because it didn't matter to me, because like I had said, only he mattered, and that was everything and all.
>>>>> 
>>>>> All I needed, all I wanted, in that instant, was mine. I let him pull me under, so that he lay over me in a locked, black embrace, and I wound my fingers around his arms, and I relinquished all control to the god, my god, my Sherlock.
>>>>> 
>>>>> There was a moment on that couch when our whole bodies touched so beautifully...when I in my jeans and he in his suitcoat and trousers could feel all of each other, and we were perfectly aligned.
>>>>> 
>>>>> I fought for nothing but his beautiful, passionate god's lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> { continue ? }


End file.
